


Softer Than Silence

by Sohotthateveryonedied



Series: Silence Lies Steadily [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: (except she got her voice back and tim doesn't), Angst, Gen, Good Bro Jason Todd, Hurt Tim Drake, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Muteness, Sign Language, dick Grayson is Trying His Best, mute character, tim is allison from umbrella academy when she got her throat slit rip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:21:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26427070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sohotthateveryonedied/pseuds/Sohotthateveryonedied
Summary: “Your larynx was severed. It was a pretty nasty injury and Leslie did everything she could, but your vocal cords...they weren’t salvageable. I’m...I’m so sorry, Tim.”Tim lets that sink in. Severed larynx. Unsalvageable vocal cords.Oh, god.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Series: Silence Lies Steadily [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1984129
Comments: 21
Kudos: 509





	Softer Than Silence

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place right after [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21152510) but it could be read alone? I think? Idk man I don't get paid enough for this.

Tim doesn’t know how much time has passed when he wakes up. He’s not even sure  _ how  _ he’s waking up. A slit throat in any universe should be a certain one-way ticket to the afterlife—don’t pass go, don’t collect two hundred dollars. Dead. Maybe Tim is dreaming. Or maybe he’s dying right now and this is just his brain flashing forward to the future he  _ could _ have had, “Owl Creek Bridge”-style.   
  
His ears feel like they’re packed with pillows, but voices make their way through his warped awareness like pencils poking through aluminum foil.   
  
“I say we should draw straws.”   
  
“Really, Jay? That’s your suggestion?”   
  
“You got a better idea, Dickface?” _  
_ _  
_ Someone clicks their tongue. “You’re both cowards. Let me be the one to tell him and I’ll have it done in less than a minute.”   
  
“I can’t even tell you all of the reasons I’m not letting you do that.”   
  
“Yeah, kid, your bedside manner fucking sucks.”   
  
“It’s better than yours!”   
  
“Will you both  _ shut up?” _ _  
_ _  
_ Tim would feign sleep and listen longer, but the drug-induced haze is fading faster than he can keep up with. His throat burns with a fiery vengeance, flames creeping up his windpipe. He shifts, a hand instinctively grappling for his throat. Someone stops him.   
  
“Tim? You awake?”   
  
He opens his eyes. Dick is beside him, lowering Tim’s wrist back to the bed. They’re in the medical area of the Batcave; he can tell by the dank air and a sliver of rock peeking through the gap in the curtain surrounding them. Jason and Damian stand off to the side, their expressions unreadable.   
  
Tim opens his mouth to ask them what happened, but before he can utter a vowel, Dick is squeezing his hand. “Don’t try to talk,” he says. Tim obediently settles back, wariness rising in his gut. He reaches up with the hand not in Dick’s grasp and discovers a thick bandage plastered over his neck. That can’t be good.   
  
“Do you remember what happened?”   
  
_ The man flicks Tim’s blood off of his sword. “I would love to continue this  _ riveting _ visit of ours, but it seems like my mission is complete. Have a pleasant night, Mr. Drake.”  _ _  
_ _  
_ Tim nods with a wince.   
  
“You were lucky,” Dick says. “Conner found you and brought you here just in time. You lost a lot of blood and Leslie had you in surgery for a while, but she was able to fix most of the damage.” Tim doesn’t miss the  _ most,  _ and Dick grimaces when he catches it as well.   
  
Tim arches one eyebrow—a clear,  _ What aren’t you telling me? _   
  
“Looks like that’s our cue to duck out,” Jason says. He grabs Damian by the shoulder and ignores the raccoon-like hands smacking him away. “Glad you didn’t die, Tim.” He ushers Damian out and they disappear, leaving Tim’s stomach curdling. He looks to Dick for an explanation.   
  
“There...there was a lot of damage, Tim. You’re lucky to be breathing right now.”   
  
That should be good, right? Tim is alive. There’s no tube in his neck so he can breathe on his own, and aside from some residual soreness under the buzz of the drugs, he feels fine. This is a monumental victory.    
  
So why does Dick look like he’s delivering a death sentence?   
  
Tim wants to ask, but he physically can’t do that. Dick doesn’t seem to be able to either. “Your larynx was severed. It was a pretty nasty injury and Leslie did everything she could, but your vocal cords...they weren’t salvageable. I’m...I’m so sorry, Tim.”   
  
Tim lets that sink in. Severed larynx. Unsalvageable vocal cords.  
  
_Oh, god._   
  
The utter horror on Tim’s face must be unmistakable because Dick is rushing to comfort him. “It’s okay, Tim. You’re going to get through this.” But Dick’s voice is muffled by the ringing in Tim’s ears. He can’t lose his voice. He can’t. This isn’t happening.   
  
Tim scrambles to sit up, his breathing becoming ragged. He sucks in a deep breath, opens his mouth, and tries,  _ tries  _ to make a noise. Tries to make a single sound, but all that comes out is a rush of air. He’s shaking. He tries to speak, to yell, to  _ scream,  _ and there are tears running down his cheeks and his gasps are empty and his throat hurts but he doesn’t stop.   
  
Dick’s hand is on his back. “Hey, hey, it’s going to be okay. We’ll figure this out.”   
  
Tim  _ hates  _ that he doesn’t even have the ability to argue, to tell Dick that there’s nothing to  _ figure out.  _ Tim can’t speak and meaningless encouragement isn’t going to change that. Nothing will change it.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
It’s an adjustment, to say the least. The first day, Tim holds out a flicker of hope that this is all some dream and any minute he’ll wake up again in the med bay, throat repaired and vocal cords intact. He can’t believe this is happening to him.    
  
In his entire life Tim never once considered what it would be like to lose his voice, never prepared himself for the possibility. He’s watched Cass trudge through reading assignments from Barbara and struggle to find the right words in a conversation, but it never occurred to him just how much Tim relied on his ability to speak. He took it for granted.   
  
His first day out of the med bay he finds himself slipping up again and again, opening his mouth in response to a question only to remember that that’s no longer an option. He doesn’t know enough sign language to partake in a conversation, so he avoids them altogether. He hears Alfred humming along to an opera album down the hall and is filled with a vicious, panging envy. Never again will Tim hum, sing, laugh. It’s all gone.   
  
Everyone keeps giving him the same droll sermons. He’ll get through this. It could have been worse; he could be dead. Cass manages just fine with sign language, and Tim can too. He should count himself lucky that the damage wasn’t more severe.   
  
But  _ is  _ he lucky? Is he really? Tim has already lost so much: his parents, his friends, his Robin career,  _ Bruce.  _ And now his voice. Life just doesn’t know when to stop taking from him. Maybe it will never stop taking, not until he’s an empty husk.   
  
Conner left for Smallville just a few days after Tim awoke. He never said why, but Tim knows it’s because he feels guilty. Tim wants to reassure him that this isn’t his fault, that Tim would be  _ dead _ if Conner hadn’t saved him, but it would take too long to write down.   
  
Bruce taught Tim basic ASL shortly after he began his Robin training, sticking to the most rudimentary of phrases that one would need for crime-fighting.  _ Yes. No. Please. Thank you. Help. Safe. Danger.  _ Steph offered to learn sign language with him and Alfred left a sneaky pile of ASL books on Tim’s desk, but he hasn’t touched them. He instead relies on a whiteboard and marker to communicate, rarely as he does.   
  
His search for Bruce has been put on hold, not of his own volition. He supposes it’s fair. After all, Tim can’t even order a hamburger anymore without the help of his whiteboard. Not that he leaves the manor much, anyway. The bandage on his neck draws too much unwanted attention. He’d hate to see what Gotham’s press would conspirize about a Wayne son with a mysteriously slit throat.   
  
Tim’s days are spent in his room, working on cases out of the action. That’s what he does now, sitting on his bed with his laptop, music blasting through his headphones.    
  
Dick pokes his head in without knocking. They still haven’t devised a system for that yet. “Hey, you got a second?”   
  
Tim flicks his fingers in Dick’s direction: his way of acknowledging people these days. He pauses his music.   
  
“Damian and I are heading out on patrol now.” Tim says nothing. Obviously. “Alfred told me you didn’t eat dinner. Or lunch. Or breakfast.”   
  
Tim rifles through the papers sprawled around his knees and holds up a crumpled pink post-it.  _ Throat hurts. _   
  
“That excuse again?” Tim shrugs. “Look, I know you’re frustrated, but what you’re doing isn’t healthy. You know that, right?”   
  
Tim twirls a finger in the air.  _ Whoop-dee-doo. _   
  
“That’s real mature.”    
  
_ Of all the things I have to worry about right now, I’d say maturity is pretty low on the list.  _ Not that Tim says any of that. He doesn’t know the signs and he let his whiteboard fall off the bed somewhere to his left hours ago. He doesn’t bother reaching for it.   
  
Dick comes closer to the bed and stops. “Can I sit?” Tim shrugs and goes back to his laptop. Dick sits on the edge by Tim’s knee and reaches over to close the computer. Tim flips him one of the few ASL signs he  _ does  _ know.    
  
“You have a right to be angry about this, but you can’t project that anger onto us. Me, Damian, Alfred—we’re not the ones you’re mad at. And we all want to help you, but we can’t do that if you don’t let us. So start letting us.”   
  
Easy for him to say. But Tim knows he’s right, as infuriating as it is, which is the only reason he doesn’t turn his music back on and shut down for another week.   
  
Sighing, Tim opens the laptop. He pulls up a blank word document and types for a moment. He turns the computer around to show Dick.  _ Speech for Neon Knights foundation in a couple days. Already written. Just need someone to deliver it. _   
  
Dick nods, smiling. “Sure. I can take care of that. And it’s okay if you need more time to work through this, but I want you to remember that I’m here if you ever want to talk. Or, well—you know what I mean. Just remember you’re not alone in this.”   
  
Tim wishes he could tell Dick the truth. That Tim  _ does  _ appreciate everything he’s trying to do—really, he does. Tim doesn’t know where he’d even be if he didn’t have Dick by his side, making the world a brighter place just by existing in it with his endless patience and unfaltering optimism.   
  
If only he had the voice to tell him.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
Jason wouldn’t call himself a particularly caring individual. That sort of legacy is better left to the  _ real  _ heroes, like Bruce and Roy and Dick-fucking-Grayson. It’s for this reason that Jason didn’t stick around for a hot second when Tim got hurt, nor did he return for the aftermath. Tim is dealing with enough shit right now. He doesn’t need his asshole older brother getting involved and making him feel worse.   
  
Jason can’t imagine what it would be like to be in Tim’s situation. For starters, it would utterly butcher his knack for smartass remarks. Plus, there’s no finer euphoria than screaming obscenities at a blubbering criminal right before he puts a bullet through their skull. Losing his voice would be losing half of what makes him the Red Hood.   
  
Red  _ Robin,  _ on the other hand...he’s always been quiet. Not like Cass, but getting there. He relies on shadows and ninja-like swiftness to get the point across that  _ this is goddamn Red Robin and you should be wetting your pants in his wake. _ But Jason’s smart enough to know that the silent schtick is done by choice. It’s a maneuver and a learned behavior rolled into one. He can only imagine how torturous it must be to be silenced by force—to be muzzled by something completely out of his control.   
  
(Fine, so Jason cares about the kid a little. Sue him.)   
  
He goes into the Batburger restaurant (Jesus shit, whoever came up with the idea of a Batman-themed restaurant should be shot in the head. Or maybe thrown a parade. He can’t decide) and scouts for black hair and pale skin. He spots Tim in a booth all the way at the back and heads over, sliding into the seat across from him.   
  
“Hey, kid.”   
  
Tim picks his head up from where he was engrossed in a game of Solitaire on his phone and gives a two-fingered salute. A notepad and Superman pen sit on the table in front of him.   
  
“Did you order yet?” Tim points to the scar on his neck and Jason mentally slaps himself in the forehead. “Right.”   
  
Tim picks up the pen and scribbles for a minute. “What,” Jason says, “no whiteboard today?”   
  
Tim turns the pad around to show Jason.  _ Too bulky. People notice.  _ Below that:  _ Nuggets, fries & grape zesti. _ _  
_ _  
_ “Magic words?”   
  
Tim rolls his eyes. He tears out the page and bounces it off Jason’s forehead. However, he does lift his right hand and rotate it in front of his chest, palm flat: the ASL sign for “please.” Jason recognizes it from his minimal knowledge accumulated from Robin training and conversations with Cass.   
  
“Attaboy. For a minute there I was worried Alf failed in making a decent person out of you.” Tim sticks his tongue out, which makes Jason chuckle.   
  
He goes to the counter and relays Tim’s order, along with his own. While he waits he dares a look back and finds Tim back to staring down at his phone, shirt collar pulled as high as it’ll go.   
  
What must it be like, going from Gotham’s favorite billionaire playboy-in-training to a silent teenager who can’t go to a restaurant without people staring at the killer scar across his throat? Jason’s seen the gossip magazines. Some speculate a failed assassination, while others are sure it was a suicide attempt gone wrong.    
  
At least Jason’s scars can be covered by a t-shirt. Tim can’t hide his without a turtleneck, but it’s summer now. He’s forced to endure the speculated theories and pitiful glances, meanwhile Jason has the benefit of being legally dead on his side. He doesn’t have to worry about people remembering him.   
  
Losing one’s voice only months after losing his second father figure is tough shit for a seventeen-year-old. For  _ anyone.  _ He doesn’t know how Tim does it.   
  
Jason goes back to the table and finds Tim doodling a stick figure on the notepad. It’s got thick, narrowed eyebrows and pointed teeth. “That supposed to be me?”   
  
Tim’s mouth quirks. He fingerspells,  _ Damian.  _ His sleeve falls down an inch, exposing a med-alert bracelet. Alfred must have made him start wearing it. What with his asplenia and nasty habit of fainting in places when he forgets to eat, it makes sense that Tim would need it. If something were to happen, it’s not like he can inform paramedics of the deal.   
  
“You really captured the evil in his eyes.” Jason takes a bite of his cheeseburger while Tim busies himself with arranging his fries in size order, the little weirdo. “So how are things at home?”    
  
_ Good,  _ Tim signs, his movements clunky and unpracticed.  _ Dick…  _ He frowns and scribbles on the pad.  _ Helicopter parenting.  _   
  
“Same old, same old, right?”   
  
Tim levels an unimpressed look.   
  
“What? It can’t be that bad.”   
  
_ Benched indefinitely. It sucks. _   
  
“Can you blame him? I wouldn’t want you in the field like this yet either.”   
  
_ Cass,  _ Tim writes, and leaves it at that.   
  
“But she’s been functioning without speech for her whole life. She doesn’t need it to be understood. You’ve only been doing it for two weeks.”   
  
_ And a half,  _ Tim writes.   
  
“You know what I mean. ‘s not like you can call for help if you get gutted in an alley.”   
  
_ Never thought I’d see the day when you’d take Dick’s side. _   
  
“Yeah, well, sometimes the fucker has a point.” He takes a sip of his soda. “You know, I talked to Babs yesterday. Said she’s working on tech that’ll let you use morse code over the comms. If she finishes it on schedule, you can be back out there in less than a month.”   
  
Tim just nods, eyes dimmed. It’s weird seeing the kid so quiet. The real trick used to be getting Tim to  _ shut up. _ He used to spend hours rambling on and on about whatever science kick he was on at the moment. For as quiet as Red Robin could be, Tim Drake never ran out of things to say. Jason misses it.   
  
He throws a sesame seed at Tim. “Hey. I’m trying to have a conversation here.”   
  
Tim makes a gesture that Jason doesn’t recognize. At Jay’s confused look, Tim writes on the notepad,  _ Fuck off. _   
  
“Cassie teach you that one?”   
  
_ Steph. Wanted to learn curse words first.  _   
  
“Of course you did. You know, you should hit up Jericho. He knows exactly what you’re going through, and I’m pretty sure he was able to teach Dick sign language in less than a year.”   
  
_ You’re the fifth person to say that. _   
  
“I’m a fucking genius, we know this. But seriously. It might be useful to have someone in your corner who knows how to cope with this kind of thing.”   
  
_ I’m coping fine. _   
  
“By listening to shitty emo music all day in your room? Yeah, because that’s super healthy.”   
  
Tim twiddles the pen between his fingers, glaring at Jason. Finally, he puts it to paper.  _ I keep calling my cell phone to listen to the voicemail. _   
  
Jason blinks. “Why?”   
  
_ Don’t want to forget what my voice sounds like. _   
  
“You won’t.”   
  
_ Forgot my mom’s after a year. Starting to forget my dad’s. _ Tim pauses before adding,  He _ yelled a lot though, so I think he’s got a lead. _   
  
Jason has no fucking idea what to say to that, thanks for asking. He gives it a shot anyway. “Then...then I’ll remember it enough for the both of us. It's kind of hard to forget that annoying-ass nasally voice babbling about Star Wars for hours anyway.”   
  
_ Wow, thanks,  _ Tim signs with an eye roll.    
  
_ No problem,  _ Jason signs back.   
  
That makes Tim smile for the first time since Jason sat down. Maybe this kid will be all right, after all.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> (How about that rushed, poorly-written ending huh?!?! I'm lazy, we know this.)
> 
> *raises glass of alcoholic tap water* Here's to hoping that I manage to make this into a series like I've been meaning to do for almost a year now, but it's like I said above. I'm lazy. We'll see how it goes.
> 
> [Feel free to mosey on down to my Tumblr!](http://sohotthateveryonedied.tumblr.com/)


End file.
